Follow You Down
by Echo Vanity
Summary: "It's a disappearing act...and the audience doesn't know whether to applaud, or to cry...Do you know the pleasure I derive from your ruination? You're all I've ever wanted..." Draco watches as Harry disappears, and wishes for escape. Eating disorder fic. Possibly triggering. Companion to Hero Like Me, but can be read seperately. Now contains MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.
1. Chapter 1

*Author's Note*

**I'm picturing this as Draco talking about Harry. I don't really understand it. I have no idea what I'm trying to say, except that eating disoders=control issues, and Harry and Draco seem like perfect candidates for that. My head is a strange place. I apologise in advance. Personally I'm pretty proud of this fic. It's been buzzing aroun my head forever and I finally got enough motivation to write it. It's my first ever fanfic and so I'm asking you to pretty please be kind. If it's not your cup of tea and you read it anyway, please leave constructive criticism. I'm not a great writer, but I do it for the love.**

**J.K Rowling the wonderful owns all. I'm just screwing with the characters**.

**Prologue: **

It would be wrong of me to say I did not see this coming.

Someone in my…position. I've been taught to be observant since I was old enough to know what I was looking for. And I have never watched anyone closer than you.

You are dying. No; you are killing yourself. And I am watching it happen.

Your once brilliant green eyes look too big for your face and they're all sunken and bloodshot. They are hungry eyes, starving- wide and staring; deep and dark and deadly, ready to gobble up the world, if only you would let them. But you do not eat, do you?

I'm not sure if I'm the only one who has noticed how you push your food around your plate, surreptitiously making it vanish without a morsel of it ever passing your pretty pink lips-

You look so pale and fragile now, like you're made out of spun sugar and I want to eat you up. But you're all razor blade bones and you would delight in cutting me up as I swallow you down.

It's kind of a disappearing act, isn't it? You and only you have mastered the trick. The master illusionist vanishing piece by piece on the stage- and the audience doesn't know whether to applaud-

or to cry.

Your friend's conversation and good intentions are a cage and I watch you

night

after

night

as you try to escape. Pushing aside their offers of homework help and second helpings- when you're ahead of even the Mudblood in every single class and your plate is untouched. They're treating you as a pet- their tame little Golden Boy- the sort they can pet and coddle and cuddle without fear; they have forgotten you're a tiger in the gilded cage of their zoo.

And I wonder- how do you make yourself invisible, with so many eyes tracking your every move?

Now _that _is a trick I'd like to master.

You're shrinking, again. It seems to come in waves; you plateau for a while and then next time I look, you're another 10 pounds down.

Your callused hands are all bone now. The veins such a dark blue beneath your grey parchment skin, they're almost purple. The flesh is too taut across your too big knuckles, like the bones are trying to break through, striving for the light.

Your proportions are all fucked up now. Your eyes and head and hands all too big for the rest of your emaciated body. Your once pretty pouty pink mouth that I used to gaze at in Potions is now permanently pressed into a hard, white line. No food will get past that fortress.

Your collar bone is a coat hanger- it's sticking out more than mine.

Your wrist- your wrist…where do I begin? It's beauty and perfect perverseness is utterly breathtaking. Your wonderful wrist shows every vein and tendon and each beautiful bone. You move your arm a fraction and all is revealed; its like seeing the inside of a clock, the strings of a puppet.

It's fascinating, your self-destruction. Fascinating and terrifying.

Do you have any idea what you do to me?

I can see your shoulder blades poking through your tatty muggle shirt.

They're starting to look like wings.

You do not eat. How? How do you not eat? What are you that you have traversed the earthly need for food? You are all bone and it is beautiful. Don't stop. Please Gods do not stop, for me, for me…

Even your friends have started to notice.

I watch them, watching you. How pitiful, how pathetic they seem to me. Now, more than ever. To have only noticed once you gave up every effort to hide it. Now you have abandoned your tattered façade they see- and here I thought they were your _friends_. Here I thought they _cared._

And still, _still _they stay silent! Mouths open close like imbecilic goldfish but they say nothing. They do not pressure you into eating, speaking, living. Not that it would help, regardless. But to not even try-! I must admit, I expected better of the Golden Gryffindors.

(But, a traitorous voice in my mind whispers- can you blame them? They're lost for words as is expected. You their hero, their brother, has been starving to death in front of them…and they had not noticed. You are not perfect and their world has come tumbling down.)

I don't know why I am surprised. I shouldn't be. They never fail to fall down to the level of my expectations. You are dying and they only noticed when you are about to jump into your grave. It's typical really. They were always going to be too late. I was the only one who saw.

And I've never loved you better than I do now.

Your hands shake as you pour your coffee. (Black as your once lustrous hair; bitter as bile.)

Eyes- blue and brown and anxious and fearful and all of them so, so ugly next to your once verdant orbs- track your every move. But you just look away. I think I see you smirk into your cup. I smile at the sight.

There will be tears and screams and anger, now that they know. They do not take pleasure in your pain, like we do.

Do you know the perverse pleasure I derive from your deliberate ruination?

Can you comprehend the extent of my restless, desperate nights, on sheets sticky with sweat and too, too hot and yet far too cold without your body next to mine. Do you have any idea of how beautiful you are as you self destruct? I want to break your body under mine, hear your prominent bones creak under my passionate attentions. I want to see bruises flowering on your paper thin skin. I want to put you back together piece by piece and I'll keep you safe and whole and dying and no one will touch you but me.

But for now, they are trying to feed you. Force you. _**Fix **_you. Can they not see it is far too late for that? You are too far gone. There's a fever now, in your mad, glittering eyes. (And oh Gods, that bright burn is back in them, they're emerald again and you're so beautiful). You're living off of broken dreams and borrowed time. You're counting calories in air and smoke and water and scents. You count the calories you burn in each spasm of your wasted muscles, the number of times your skeletal fingers tap tap tap on the tabletop. I can see the numbers adding and subtracting in your eyes. Those beautiful, starving, bruised and bloodshot eyes-they are like an open book to me now and Gods, I have never wanted anything so much.

You are indescribably beautiful. You are everything I have ever wanted.

They cannot reach you now.

I know, _I know-_you are

Too

Far

Gone.

You are beyond them now alone

And unprotected.

Mine for the plucking and I yearn.

Is this love? I wonder if this is love- maybe the story books got it wrong got it right-

If I can't have you I will die.

I smiled at you today, for the first time in all our lives. You looked so shocked. No one smiles at you any more. They look at you with trepidation and fear and anger and occasionally disgust. But no one smiles.

I promise, I- I will always smile.

I saw your ribs today. Like a ladder, matching the one you'd carved on your thigh. Such pretty little slices, like red ribbons. They match the bruises blooming on your flesh, the madness blossoming in your eyes. Oh what a beautiful, desecrated battlefield you are!

I had your skin beneath my hands, your brittle bones beneath my questing fingers.

I ran from you, and I am sorry.

But your ribs- you were just standing there! And there they were in all their protruding glory! I always knew you were the epitome of beauty but never before had I realised what gazing upon perfection was.

The sight of you filled me with shame. Such willing hard won perfection beneath my hands, in my grasp and for the first time I knew what it was to be undeserving.

Seeing you I felt

My flesh thicken

Harden

Like I was wearing a cage made of the

Flabby

Fleshy

Failings

Of the dead and damned.

Who was I to attempt to posses beauty?

I want perfection. Like you. Beauty like your shoulder blade wings.

So I will follow you, follow you, follow you down. And when I am deserving, then, then I will touch you

Mark you

Hold you

Love you.

And all I'm asking is please do not die 'til I reach you.

It would be wrong to say I did not see this coming.

*A/N* Compnaion Fic to this: "Hero Like Me" is complete...you should definitely read that before finishing this but it doesn't really matter. Please review! I'm so happy and grateful to everyone whho have read/alerted/favoutited this but reviews mean the world to me! Negative, positive, contructive. I really don't mind.^_^


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Please read. Sorry for this…

I just wanted to let everyone who put this on alert know that this fic is now officially on hiatus, until I get my shit together. Right now is a really bad time for me and my muse kind of upped and died. I've been struggling really bad with my bulimia and am back at the self-harming stage of depression. I hope you all understand. I promise as soon as I get myself together, I will be continuing this fic, and publishing more. I won't just abandon it forever. I'm really sorry and I love everyone who had reviewed/alerted/favourited. Some days those emails I got for it actually stopped me doing something stupid. So thanks.

Love, Echo.


	3. Strange Symphonies

**A/N: Hey there...soo this is the next little way way overdue figment of Follow You Down. Warnings for character death (cause I figured you guys didn't hate me enough for the ridiculously long wait...) READ HERO LIKE ME FIRST IF YOU HAVEN'T ALLREADY DONE SO CAUSE OTHERWISE THE ENDING WILL BE RUUINNED. If you want to that is. You don't have to, but the two are kinda connected so yes. Just to let you know there are weird perspective shifts and the overall style/tone of writing is different from my previous work, as I'm writng from a very different perspective now and my emotions unduly influence the way I write so yeah...**

**A MASSIVE thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's stuck with this little fic, and for every single person who has sent me supportive messages, you have absolutely no idea how much they mean to me. They really helped me get through the worst, and I love you all so much :,) I'm not 100% but I'm better than I was, and I owe you all so much. Mkay, enough rambles, on with the fic! (It's short I know, but it's like a semi follow on prologue thing i dunno. there'll be more soon, promise!)**

**JKR THE AWESOME OWNS ALL.**

**Title: Strange Symphonies. **

In the end there is a silence so profound that it seems to echo through his mind.

In the end there is a vast emptiness, a cold void in his heart mind life arms

Where once a warm bony body lay.

In the end there are stranger's arms and strange speech and too bright colours and too much noise.

There is bushy hair and a soft voice pulling his arms away from a body.

Just a body.

Not his not his-

(_he isn't dead he can't be dead he's the hero and hero's don't die Harry open your eyes!)_

In the end-

There are thousands of screaming headlines.

There is the public grief

And the private mourning.

There is a golden statue and

An unmarked grave

And frozen earth

_Thud_

_Thud_

Thudding

Onto a coffin that is not

his.

(_he isn't dead he isn't dead he's just pretending just sleeping it's just a game Harry wake up, this isn't funny anymore. Love, please-)_

There are warm tears and cold, trembling hands seeking warmth.

There are endless questions and burning accusations-

_Why did this-_

_How could this-_

_why did you let this happen-_

_how could you_

_why didn't you **tell **us-_

_Are you ok-_

_Why didn't he_

_Why didn't you-_

_How could he do this-_

_Did you know he's left you everything-_

_Did you **try-**_

_**Did you really love him?**_

_**Or was it just a game to you?**_

The last is spat at him by a loathed red-head and her chocolate eyes burn and blur with tears.

(he hasn't cried can't cry crying will make it real _it's not real he isn't gone he can't be gone it's just a dream wake up Draco wake the fuck up! Please-)_

He wants to tell her he loved him, his hero, his Ha-Harry- more than anything.

He wants to tell her of the cold nights made complete by the boy in his arms, the shared silences which tasted of perfection, the completion he felt by his side-

But he can't find the words.

And he wouldn't waste them on her even if he could.

So he turns away. Goes back to his rotting apartment.

Puts his head in his arms and tries to shut out the voices that scream in his head, the hunger and cold and fear that gnaw at his bones. Tries to escape the image of a once blazing pair of emeralds

Faded

Cold

d

e

a

d

and the world will never spin the same again.


	4. Purify

**A/N: Not my best, but this chapter, the introduction of Draco developing his e.d was really, really hard for me to write. Please understand how triggering I find describing the binge/purge cycle and associated emotions, as well as the fact, I can't describe how it is properly, because I'm not in the moment, when such a thing is occuring. It's easier to write from an outside perspective for some reason. This is too close to home which is why I chose to deal with it in a disassociated manner and a general, rather than descriptive way. The rest of the fic won't be as rushed, and will hopefully be truer to the original and Hero Like Me format. This was just really, really hard, because it's the first and I needed to attempt to convey the reasoning behind why a cycle would *develop*. So, apologies. **

In the beginning, before things go oh so

_Wrong_

Before there is a love story

or a tragedy

before he knows they will connect in a way that surpasses that of

childhood enmity and

shadow sickness

and a sick strange longing.

Before there is the profound connection and the sleepless nights.

Before the shaking limbs and bloody mouths and the hate and the hurt and the bliss and the burn and the horror and the heartache and the regret and the complications and the

Love

Perfection

Peace

Death.

Yes, long before any of this,

There is the simple fact that Draco Malfoy is hungrier than he has ever been in his pampered princely life-

And that is simply unacceptable.

His stomach aches, his fine boned hands shake and his vision twists and blurs and he wonders how Harry has managed to go so long on so little. Two days in and Malfoy was so so

Wrong

When he thought this would be oh-so-easy

And maybe he loves Harry

_Potter_

But Draco thinks maybe he underestimated him, too used to his thoughts that go

_Whatever Potter can do I can better, Malfoy's are superior in all things after all_

So used to **hate** that respect comes slowly.

Not to mention that Potter,

Harry,

Was raised in deprivation

If the rumours of

Cupboard love

Are true.

(But surely no one could be that cruel, to lock a

_Child, just a child,_

In a cupboard with only the barest of care

Especially not a child with eyes like

Green fire.)

Draco wonders what horrors Harry became accustomed to left alone in a little box

All alone with relatives who

Hated him

For all that he represented,

Feared him

For all they knew he'd become.

And despite what the rumours say

Draco never knew cruelty at the hands of his parents.

Not as a child.

Not til Vo-

The Dark Lord rose once more and his parents had reason to fear.

And Draco ignores the voice in his mind that hisses in time to a hand on his back that hits in time to his heart

_Failure Draco, you are nothing but a _

_Disappointment_

_You sully our pure blood with your disgrace_

_Disgusting_

_Draco-_

_Stop sniveling_

_You brought this on yourself._

_Act like a Malfoy boy._

_Stop being so weak._

_This isn't cruelty._

_It's discipline._

_You will learn this if it _

_Kills_

_You._

Draco feels sick. He has never been so hungry in his life.

But Harry doesn't eat

And no one looks twice at him.

They just stare straight through and Draco craves

Invisibility.

But his hands shake and he feels weak

_Malfoys are never weak._

_Scum-!_

It's three a.m and the corridors are empty

Though there seem to be whispers echoing in the night

And he feels fear,

The castle has no love for those who tried to destroy it.

Draco let evil walk it's hallowed halls and Hogwarts hasn't forgiven him and if he listens hard enough he can hear the screams of the dying as the battle rages smell the burning of human flesh as his friend fries in the Feindfyre he was smart enough to conjure but too stupid and desperate to control and Draco doesn't sleep anymore because in his head he sees a ragdoll body falling in slow motion and hears a sickening thump as it hits the ground and his stomach roils and Snape looks like a stranger and Greyback is leering and there is the stench of rotting flesh and everyone's

Dead

And it's all his fault and oh god he's a monster and how dare Draco presume anyone could ever love his corrupted soul

Let alone a hero the

Saviour.

_You're stuffing food in your mouth and you don't even remember picking it up in the first place. You shovel it down, tasting nothing, but you're empty, and you a_

_Ache_

_You are _

_Starving_

_Not in body_

_Though you're so fucking hungry, never satisfied are you, you greedy little fuck, fucking ugly little piggy. _

_But it's a soul hunger there are demons inside you clamoring to be heard and they're so fucking loud kill them kill them smother them fill that void hungry so fucking hungry so sick, sick keep eating it helps it'll help cake and cream and pie and gravy and bread and butter and sugar and spice and everything nice turkey ham chicken potato treacle tart pumpkin pie scones biscuits chips crisps custard anything everything scum scum fatty disgusting look at that look at what you've done-_

_**What the fuck have you done?! You think you'll ever see bone if you eat like THAT get it out sick sick sick sick disgusting fat pig out no no no no NO MONSTER**_

And Draco's never been so scared in all his life and as he tears through the moonlit, sinister corridors he whispers

No

No

No

No

Over and over again.

He has never felt so full in all his life.

He was wrong to think the emptiness was torture.

This is torture.

And it's surprisingly easy, he muses, shoving his pretty pale fingers down his throat,

Instinct he supposes

And a sensitive gag reflex

And he's hurling up a weeks worth of food over a porcelain shrine

A weeks worth of food and months of memories.

War has this way of leaving such a rotten taste in one's mouth.

But on his knees in a mockery of prayer to a god he has never believed in, Draco thinks he's found some strange kind of peace, some wholeness in a cycle of consumption and removal.

Let Harry keep his empty hunger, starve his ghosts and Draco will…

Smother them, til they stick to the treacle and then he can purge his demons out and flush them down the S-Bend and oh God, he's disgusting-

But he feels calmer than he has since the day he saw the evil light leave the Dark Lords eyes,

Feels a hope that has nothing to do with weightloss and everything to do with

Purity.


	5. Turnabout

It's a game of shadows and sickness and there are no rules except the ones he makes up himself and

Draco flies and Draco falls and some day's he's winning this sick little torturous horrific game

Competing against everyone and surpassing them all

(Except Harry. But he is, in everything, the exception.).

No one in the world has Draaco's self control. To pick at morsels with distaste in front of their envious eyes and to

Purge empty remove destroy purify

Every bite that makes it's sneaky way into his mouth.

And other times he's losing, and he's stuffing handfuls of food down his aching throat because this emptiness is killing him and in the void in his heart his mind his soul the monsters rage and blood is spilling and beloved eyes look at him in disgust and he has no friends no future no hope no purpose no love, no, no love at all and fat clings and bursts through his skin and he has no choice, no, no choice at all except to shove those aristocratic fingers down his swan like throat and heave and gag an retch and cry and hope to hell he gets it all up that everything and everyone in his head will just _**shut up shut up get out get out out out OUT OUT. FOR FUCKS SAKE SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP-**_

So his tired head will stop pounding and he can sleep.

He doesn't sleep so well anymore.

Aching muscles and dizzy spells and restlessness and the thoughts that seem to get worse and worse every single time he misses a meal or pukes or eats everything and anything in sight or pushes himself so hard he thinks he might just _faint._

But fainting on the Quidditch pitch is not a very Malfoy thing to do.

It's a game and he's the only player and he's losing.

Emerald eyes look straight through him, burning and cold and alien and gut-wrenchingly familiar.

It's been 43 days since Harry and Draco kissed and if he tries hard enough, Draco can still taste Harry in the back of his mouth, warm like sunshine and bitter as coffee grounds and sweet as treacle tart and as effervescent as smoke and sadness.

He wonders if he thinks Harry is beautiful because Harry's bones shine through his parchment skin like diamonds.

Or if he thinks bones are beautiful and desirable because it's

_Harry._

And days are so hard to keep track of when they all follow the same routine.

_Struggle to wake up because your head is pounding like you've gone head to head with Hargrid drinking Firewhiskey the night before._

_Get up late because moving your limbs seems far too difficult and your goose-feather mattress (_French geese, of course. Malfoy's only ever have the best_) is simply far too soft and warm to resist._

_Shower haphazardly, making sure there are no traces of food or puke on your person, but not really caring either way._

_Dress. Make sure there's nothing disgusting on your robes and if there is, pick it off and hope no one notices._

_(_He's a Malfoy and the Malfoy name is scum here. Meaningless, except when used as synonymous with_**scum Death Eater traitor**__)_

_Run a comb through your hair and try not to notice more and more strands of lank blonde are falling out every day. Avoid your tired, blood shot, sunken, shamed eyes in the mirror. Avoid looking at the fat that bubbles under your skin._

_Try not to cry._

_Breakfast. A cup of coffee and an apple cut into eighths, eaten one slow bite at a time, yellowing teeth pulling at the fibres. Abandon when you realize you're seconds away from being late to class._

_Again._

_Attempt to concentrate in class. Succeed for the first hour or so. Start getting restless. Eyes begin to blur and hands begin to tremble. Someone's stomach rumbles but it isn't yours. You've eaten your rations for today. This greedy body won't fool you forever. Lose your place in the teacher's lecture because you were thinking about food. Thinking about Potter. Thinking about Death Eaters and Dumbledore's body hitting the ground. Thinking about your father and how much of a disappointment you are. _

_Give up. You're smarter than every single one of these plebians anyway. Fuck them._

_Lunch. Pour a cup of coffee with trembling hands and try not to breathe in calories from the food that covers the Slytherin table. It is __**poison**_ _it will __**destroy you.**__Grab another apple and slice it u carefully. You didn't finish the one at breakfast so it doesn't count. _

_Glance around for Potter surreptitiously beneath your lank fringe. He's not there. The lesser two-thirds that complete the Golden Trio look lost and afraid. Squash down your worry. Smirk victoriously because it serves them right._

_Go to class. Pay attention til the caffeine wears off and your head begins to ache. Doodle notes on your parchment and ignore the ache in your stomach. Hallucinate the smell of freshly baked pumpkin pie. Think about pumpkin pie. Think about Harry. Think about kissing Harry. Think about touching Harry, all alone in the dark-_

_Remonstrate yourself because double Potions with an accomplished Legilems is not the appropriate place to be having thoughts of any sort about Potter. _

_Go to the deserted dorms while everyone else is at dinner. Ignore your aching stomach and give in to restless limbs. Bring yourself off to the thought of bony, pale, callused hands and a bony spine and angel-wing shoulder blades and a taunting smile and emerald eyes and scarred skin. _

_Pretend to be asleep when your dorm mates return._

_Fall asleep._

_Dream of food. Dream of war. Dream of food some more._

_Wake and head to the kitchens on auto pilot. Listen to the voices screeching in your head. Eat everything. Eat consume gorge until you are in pain and then eat some more. Eat to fill smother eradicate the void in your chest, that empty, lonely,, gaping wound only you seem to feel. Eat until you are so full you can barely walk. _

_Run to the second floor girl's bathrooms anyway. (_It's safe here. Moaning Myrtle likes him and seems glad of the company. And she has no nose to smell the sickly, awful smell of puke and bile and, increasingly often, blood. She just simpers like she knows something he does not and offers residence in the S-Bend when he dies.)

_Stick a finger, three, a fist, a fucking arm down your throat if that's what it takes and heave up your insides. Keep going until you are empty and aching and so fucking tired you could die. Heave again to make sure there's not a single speck of poison food left on your pretty purified putrefying insides._

_Stand and clutch the wall for support because you are so dizzy you forget how to breathe._

_Rinse out your raw mouth with icy water that fails to wash away the metallic, bitter taste in your mouth._

_Go to sleep, and toss and turn throughout the night, restless and insatiable and so very alone._

_Wake up._

_Repeat._

_Repeat._

_Repeat._

It's been 57 days since the kiss, since Harry looked alive and Draco just lost a tooth and a total of 11 pounds. Most of it, no doubt, hair and hydration and hope and electrolytes and sanity and self.

But weight loss is weight loss and it means Draco is winning.

It's a sick, sad, self-destructive game with only a single deadly, inevitable outcome.

But he's winning.


	6. Dumb, Numb, Scum

**A.N: Apologies for how long it's taken me to get such a short and slow-moving chapter out. Work has been insane and I haven't had time for anything let alone this. Thank you to anyone still reading this for your patience. I also haven't felt "safe" enough to attempt to write this, but I reached a mini-milestone in my recovery today and decided I was strong enough to write without triggering. TRIGGER WARNINGS STILL APPLY THOUGH. Also, work will be chilling out a bit for a week, so hopefully I'l be able to get a couple more chapters out and move this thing along. chapter after next will contain Drarryyyyy. Promise. Maybe even next chapter if I'm feeling generous. Maybe. Also apologies for any OOCness and a wonky timeline I get muddled.**

**this is dedicated to the flawless HeidiFox whose beautiful reviews are works of art. Sorry again for the lack of updating. I really do love you guys, and I won't abandon this. 3 **

It's 4 a.m. and he's walking the corridors again, round and round, each groove in the stone familiar and comforting. His footsteps sound like whispers. The ghosts treat him like one of their own.

5 a.m. and his growling stomach is loud enough to wake the castle.

He eats and eats and eats until his pale skin is distorted and stretched, a mockery of gluttony. He's always been skinny but now he can count each of his ribs. He's so fucking hungry he could die.

6 a.m. and the castle starts to stir. The taste of blood and bitter bile and sugar fade from his tongue as the cold winter sun sneaks it's way in.

6.42a.m. He's back in his dungeon bed, as if he's never left.

6.53 a.m. Blaise, the early riser, opens one dark, sleepy eye and grins at Draco, mumbling a "Good morning". Theo grunts. They rise.

Another day.

68 days. 7 hours. 43 minutes.

Apples. Coffee. Restless fingers and shaking knees. Pansy chatters on inanely and subtly shifts the breakfast platter toward Draco. Draco shoves it toward Blaise. Blaise raises an eyebrow and murmurs: "My, my Draco. Manners."

Draco's stomach gives a violent gurgle. He flinches. They pretend not to notice.

Purebloods know how to play pretend.

68 days. 9 hours. 18 minutes.

"Mr Malfoy," McGonagall raises an eyebrow at Draco's hovering form and indicates the chair in front of her desk. It now has a maroon and green tartan cushion adorning it. Draco wonders blearily if McGonagall's been taking advice from Dumbledore's portrait. Her office is starting to look positively _cozy. _He sinks into the seat and watches her warily. "Mr Malfoy. Draco…do you know why you're here?" Draco can't read her tone. Is she sad, disappointed, angry? Have they finally decided they don't want Death Eater scum like him polluting the hallways? Has he done something unknowingly while he wanders through the night, half drunk on desperation?

Inside he panics. Outwardly, he shakes he head, and steels his expression in a faded mockery of his old Slytherin-Prince iciness.

"Your grades Mr. Malfoy have dropped considerably in the past few months. I understand the pressure of NEWT year, combined with the…unfortunate…circumstances surrounding your continued enrolment at Hogwarts must be taking a considerable toll. But one of the key factors in your coming back to Hogwarts, in lieu of Azkaban, was that you maintained the grades you were achieving before the war. Mr. Malfoy, you're barely scraping an Acceptable in Transfiguration; once you were achieving, with minimal effort I might add, Exceeds your Potions grade is slipping below a pass grade. Before the war you were second in your class,now…"

She pauses, examines him minutely and he tries not to fidget. His face is frozen. His mind is in turmoil. He knew he was slipping, but not to the extent of _failure. _Not to the extent of Azkaban.

"Mr. Malfoy, your teachers have great faith in you. Despite all that has transpired, we want only the best for you. But there is only so much we can do. You're grades are unacceptable, your frequent inattention in class even more so. This cannot continue. I'm afraid I have had to refer the matter to Professor Slughorn. From now until your grades reach an acceptable level, you will be spending an hour in his company each evening. If there is anything you are struggling with, I am sure he will be only too happy to assist you. Do you have any questions?"

Draco shakes his head, dumbly. His heart beats out an uncertain rhythm.

_Failure pathetic idiot Azkaban failure circumstances scum scum fat fat weak dumb failure failure Azkaban…_

Mcgonagall frowns, an uncertain look crossing her lined, proud face. "Draco, I know this must be difficult. The war is not over for everyone, and with your history…if there is anyone who is making this harder for you, I ask that you come to me. Harrassment is never acceptable. All students have the right to feel safe. Hogwarts became a battleground during the war. It will not do so again as long as I am Headmistress. Is there anything going on that you feel is untowardly affecting your learning?"

_Green eyes and scarlet gashes ribs poking through once-golden skin. A moan a breath green eyes a body hitting the ground the thunk of a skull shattering the smell of blood and rotting flesh the taste of vomit that never seems to go away cold grey eyes looking back from a mirror scarlet red red red blood bones rot pain scum scum scum the whispers the agony the never ending battle-_

The war isn't over for any.

Draco shakes his head again. He knows she expects him to protest, to defy, to be the Malfoy they all expect him to be.

He doesn't have a voice. He's just a scared, weak little boy in the rotting body of a man with an ugly tattoo.

The war isn't over.

It will never be over.

Mcgonagall sighs and her eyes are forlorn.

He stands and turns to go, back ramrod straight, and hands shaking.

"Draco," she calls and he turns toward her, trying not to breathe lest he start to sob. In front of _McGonagall. _How humiliating. She's holding out a tartan tin.

"Have a biscuit, Draco."

He takes three.

68 days. 9 hours. 44 minutes.

And he's hunched over the toilet bowl, head resting on the rim. His mouth tastes like blood, and very faintly of ginger. His head pounds and though he knows there's not a single thing left inside him, save sluggish, pure blood, he shoves his fingers down his throat again, caressing the tortured flesh of the junction between tongue and throat, the way Harry's tongue once did in a dream. Just in case there's any poisonous calories left. Just in case there's any monsters. Just in case there's any Draco left inside at all.

He retches and it makes his entire body ache. He slumps once more, exhausted.

Still his heart keeps rhythm to the songs of the voices in his head.

_Fat failure idiot boy stupid little weakling Drakey-poo baby Draco scum Death Eater failure weakling idiot scum fat failure ugly undeserving scum monster fat poison_

Beyond the cold walls students laugh and learn and chatter and live.

And Draco is once more on his knees before a porcelain throne, praying to no-one and living for nothing.


	7. Blur

**A/N: Hey looks it's an update! Apologies to anyone still reading this about my atrocious updating schedual. Life's a bit weird atm, very busy with work and a bit strange in terms of mental health and the urgeto write anything is increasingly rare. I miss writing Drarry though, so I'm going to make more of an effort to write this, and hopefully some other works because these lovely (though fucked up) babies make me happy. Thanks for reading, and as always please review :) **

Days pass and blur as winter freezes the castle and spring thaws it once more. Draco forgets to count his days because there's no point anymore. The days shift and blur and melt and vanish, and he feels them running through his fingers like sand.

He lives for a dream he maybe once had about a boy who seemed to like him and who had some strange fire in his eyes and carried beauty in his bones but

The boy is gone now drifting away like smoke.

So Draco doesn't look at Harry anymore, because everyone else is staring and Draco thinks Harry might just _break_ under the weight of all those staring eyes. And besides it hurts far too much, to see Harry, see his sickness and see his pain and see his god-awful breathtaking bones and know they will never ever belong to _him._

Days pass and Draco drinks more coffee than he should so he can at least pretend to be paying attention in class. He studies at lunch, tries to study at lunch and forces his aching head and blurring eyes to make sense of the strange squiggles and dots on the page.

He avoids the Great Hall at dinner because Pansy and Blaise have stopped pretending everything's fine, now that Slughorn and McGonagall have both deemed there is, in fact something wrong. Instead he goes straight to the kitchen and gorges, rushing to the bathroom's, glad of deserted corridors.

After dinner he has an hour of enforced "tutoring" with Slughorn, which mostly consists of being lectured in undertones of what an ungrateful brat he is, how dare he shame the name of Slytherin further, he's a mess and Draco doesn't remember Slughorn being vicious before the war.

But the war changed a lot, and if Slytherin name was feared before, it is now covered in shit and blood and blame and loathing and Slughorn's crystalised pineapple supplies must be running low.

And across the Slytherin common room, Blaise and Pansy shoot him worried looks and he can feel the weight of the eyes, the eyes, shifting away before he can catch them, smirks and sneers and lips curled in utter disgust melting away as he looks but he has _seen _and Draco can feel their hatred like shards of glass being pushed into his flesh.

If Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived, the Saviour then Draco Malfoy has become the Boy Who Killed, the Coward. Voldemort's not around to blame and Draco is the one with the stain on his name, the ink on his skin, the blood on his hands.

And after the "tutoring", which helps not at all, Draco endures an hour of Blaise and Pansy's incessant nattering, as they try to fill the void where once their Draco sat. They force candy bars and bread rolls stolen from the dinner table into his hands, and he pockets them for them later. He can't eat with an audience, can't let the ones who despise him (or the two left who love him) how _greedy gluttonous disgusting weak weak weak _he truly is.

Slytherins are taught from the cradle how best to use weakness against their enemies. And Draco is enemy number one. The coward who brought them all down.

After enduring this social torture, Draco slips off to bed, before anyone else and lies there, tracing cold fingers across dry flesh, choking back tears and wishing he was dead.

And when the dorm room and the common room are finally silent, but for the steady sound of sleeping breath, he rises once more and invades the kitchens like a one man army. Eating eating eating. Swallowing his fear and failure and desperation and loneliness and regret and pain and utter hatred down along with pumpkin juice and treacle tart and chocolate mousse and potatoes cooked a hundred different ways and roast beef and peas and gravy and everything. Anything. Just let it fill the emptiness.

Then the mad dash to the bathrooms. Puke til he bleeds. Cry. Loathe himself. Walk the corridors til the sun rises, mumbling to himself and the voices in his head. His father, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Dumbledor, Snape, Fenrir, the muggles who's names he doesn't know but whose blood stains his hands.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

H stops talking because talking makes his raw throat ache.

Pansy and Blaise stop giving him food, knowing it won't do any good and fearing the terror they see in his eyes whenever they mention food or weight or school or the weather, they too grow silent when he is near.

Draco wonders blearily, when he summons the energy to care, if their fucking behind his back, if they talk behind his back, if they really like him or are just pretending too because Pureblood's and outcast's have to stick together.

He studies more than ever but his grades drop. Lower, lower and he can feel the Dementors beginning to grasp at his limbs, and when he sleeps, on the increasingly rare nights he manages to, he dreams of rotten rattling breath and cold and despair and all the horrors he has ever faced, and wakes, shivering and sweating and in tears.

Slughorn gives up on him in disgust. McGonagall shakes her head in pity and refuses to meet his eyes.

Draco knows the feeling.

Draco doesn't care.

Draco's dreaming of ways to die.

His world shrinks, becomes focused soley on food and puking and death.

He stops dreaming of emerald eyes and inky hair.

He stops dreaming of happiness.

He stops writing to his mother, whose letters have been becoming increasingly more bizarre.

He walks as though in a dream, bumping into things and seeing nothing.

He's living for the moment he can get the fuck out of Hogwarts, the moment he can step onto the platform at Kings Cross, and straight onto the Knight Bus, where he can go to Knockturn Alley, book a room in the shittiest inn and swallow the hundred vials of Dreamless Sleep he's been collecting.

And Draco is content living for death. But one day Harry doesn't come to any of his classes. One day McGonagall looks like she's about to cry. And though Draco goes through his motions, he feels a nagging sense of fear, of wrongness in the pit of his stomach. And when he runs to his bathroom that night, choking on tears and fear and desperation, fingers down his throat before he's even on his knees, puking without even caring if he ends up covered in it, a voice from the dark, broken and beloved whispers:

"Draco? What are you doing?"

And his world shifts off it's precarious axis and is remade, reborn. Shifts into something stranger, sadder, and infinitely more beautiful than it was before.

But for now Draco knows nothing of this. All he knows is there are a pair of luminous and slightly deranged green eyes staring at him in the darkness, and he has no fucking clue what to say.


End file.
